


Lost control; found family.

by letosatie



Series: Les Amis Group Projects [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras' dork is showing, Fluff, Getting Together, I said dork, Les Amis Group Projects, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, M/M, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 03:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7784506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letosatie/pseuds/letosatie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Éponine snaps a photo for the online awareness campaign -- “Blackmail, more likely,” Courfeyrac grumbles, when she gets one of him on the floor trying to coax a fox terrier out from under a table -- just as Grantaire looks up at her with desperate eyes and dog-hair-flecked soap on his cheeks.</p><p>“You are struck from my will, Thénardier,” Grantaire says flatly.  </p><p>“Oh no,” she says, feigning dismay, “how else will I acquire half used oil paints and empty tequila bottles?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or the one where Les Amis are fundraising and raising awareness for guide dogs and training a puppy as a Les Amis Group Project.   Only some Amis are better puppy parents than others.</p><p>Each Les Amis Group Project fic is standalone from the rest of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost control; found family.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my Olympic level betas: [funGhoulery](http://archiveofourown.org/users/funGhoulery/pseuds/funGhoulery) \- who is gold medal sprint fast and was lead to believe this was a 3k fic, and [lost-in-a-paradox](http://lost-in-a-paradox.tumblr.com/) \- who was recovering from surgery and added some of Bahorel being Bahorel.

“Um,” says Grantaire, when Enjolras opens the floor to the rest of Les Amis during a meeting. Everyone falls silent and stares because Grantaire saying ‘um’ is just stunning, in an I’ve-been-stung-by-a-taser way, not a silent-pause-the-second-before-inspired-action kind of way. Grantaire takes a deep breath, and then the one moment of bizarreness is gone and words flow from him in his usual glibness. “My friend Floréal is blind and just got a seeing-eye dog. She was on the waiting list a really long time for it and he’s great, a good dog, but it was years before one was trained and available. I propose Les Amis fund and train a puppy and raise awareness while we do it, blog about it, instagram account, that sort of thing.”

Jehan stands up clumsily and the table rocks, a few drinks slop onto the scratched formica. “I want a puppy!” they yell and their mouth protrudes in an uncharacteristic pout.

“Wait,” says Grantaire, physically stepping forward as if to restrain Jehan from storming out right then to acquire a dog. “The training is specific and one of us will need to be the main caretaker and trainer.” He rubs his forehead with his thumb pad. “That’s why I brought it up here, because I know I can’t maintain the proper discipline. But it’s important. God, you should see Flors face…” He breaks off. 

“I second the project but wouldn’t have enough time around my jobs to properly give to the training,” Feuilly offers.

“I think we should do it, but I can’t have animals in my apartment building,” Bahorel says.

“I’m allergic,” says Joly ruefully.

“It’s obvious Jehan is out as a trainer,” Feuilly notes, before tipping his head towards the front of the room, “but maybe one of you three could do it?” 

“The dogs need to be socialized and with me the poor thing would see only the library, the lab, and the inside of it’s eyelids,” says Combeferre.

“Courf might not… Courf may not possess…” Bossuet stutters to a close.

“Go on, spit it out,” says Courfeyrac, pretending to wipe away a tear, “you’re trying to say I’m too soft.”

“Well I was, but I wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings,” Bossuet says with an Olympic level of snark.

“Can’t Apollo do it, he’s stern,” suggests Grantaire, then looks incredibly confused when Combeferre and Courfeyrac explode with uncontrolled laughter.

Interestingly, Enjolras has gone red and is fidgeting with his pen, the signs of embarrassment overlaying the pissed-off look on his face. 

“Well,” smirks Bahorel, “this seems like a good story.”

But Courfeyrac is wheezing too hard to respond and Enjolras is pinching his lips together and Combeferre actually leaps out of his seat to run out of the room gasping, “I need to pee.”

“What’s so funny?” Joly asks after a baffling few minutes watching Courfeyrac gasp for air and get progressively redder.

“I’ll show you,” he says reaching for his laptop and pulling up a folder of photos called Enjy and Guillaume. He projects it onto the whiteboard where Combeferre usually projects the statistics and other shared information during meetings.

Suddenly the whiteboard is showing 18 year old Enjolras carrying a dogue de bordeaux way too large to be carried anywhere. It clicks to 10 year old Enjolras, who hasn’t yet grown into his front teeth, and the still tiny puppy, on a lead and pooping. They’re wearing matching woollen jerseys.

“Look it’s tiny Guillaume,” Courfeyrac coos.

“And baby Enjolras,” booms Bahorel.

There are a series of couples costumes with Enjolras at varying ages: as Calvin with Guillaume striped as Hobbes, both as spiders, one year Enjolras is a werewolf and Guillaume is a vampire -- “They were rebelling against appearance norms,” explains Courfeyrac -- one year they’ve dressed, inexplicably, as Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee. 

“Baby Courf!” squeals Marius, delighted with a snap of little Enjolras standing unimpressed as Courfeyrac and Guillaume splash in puddles. Courfeyrac is in a T-shirt and sopping jeans, but Enjolras and his dog have matching raincoats. 

Joly looks a little sick when he sees a slightly blurry shot of Enjolras and Guillaume’s profiles in Santa hats as they smush their faces together and Guillaume’s tongue has definitely breached the fence of Enjolras’ teeth. “There was mistletoe,” Enjolras grumbles. 

Image after image telling a tale of Enjolras spoiling his big companion, whether they’re on the Moran leather couch together, or sharing a hot dog, or Enjolras lying with his head pillowed on patient Guillaume’s belly while reading. 

“I took this one,” says Combeferre, who has returned. He looks like someone hastily pasted a sombre mask onto him, but it’s bunching up in all the wrong places. He points to a photo of Enjolras and Guillaume with just their heads poking out of the bed covers, fast asleep and apparently competing to unconsciously produce the greatest amount of drool.

Joly and Bossuet are leaning on each other giggling. Jehan and Marius are cooing. Feuilly and Bahorel look simply perplexed, like young children when they see their kindergarten teacher outside of school. Enjolras is doing his best to fade into the wall. 

“So, the area in life in which Enjolras has zero discipline,” says Combeferre, “is dogs. I submit, therefore, he would be a terrible choice to train the puppy.” 

“I can do probably do it,” says Marius, “I’ll need to read up on the requirements but Grandfather kept dogs and they were exceptionally well trained. I’m good with them.” 

The meeting segues into fundraising ideas after that, and breaks up after around 40 minutes. Enjolras darts out of the room as rapidly as he can but is not fast enough to avoid being accosted by Grantaire, who has obviously been waiting for him outside the building. 

“Apollo,” he says and falls into stride next to Enjolras on the pavement. “What happened to Guillaume?”

“Trust you to wonder, R,” Enjolras says. His smile is tiny and soft. “He died years ago. I had to leave him behind to come to University and he was very old by then. Dogues de bordeaux only live 5-8 years. Guillaume was almost nine.”

“Sorry,” says Grantaire.

“It’s alright,” Enjolras says back.

“I would have loved a dog,” Grantaire offers after a block passes in silence, “I walked all the neighbours’ dogs for free. And I cried when any of them died, so… I don’t even know…”

Enjolras huffs. “You know, I’ve never met anyone who can provoke such polar reactions out of me than you do R. Frequently, I want to wrap my hand around your throat until you can’t talk anymore. And then sometimes, like now, I want to wrap my hand around your hand.”

“You want to hold my hand?”

“Yes, but even that’s confusing because I can’t figure out if I want to comfort you or get comfort from you. You’re just... very confusing.”

Grantaire wrinkles his nose. “That’s unlikely to improve at this point, I’m sorry to say.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m the one who should be sorry. I often want to silence your voice. How hubristic.”

“Ah, but actions speak louder than words, Apollo. Because, while you may want to shut me up, you never do,” Grantaire reminds him, “Even when I’m being… well, I mean, some of the time I don’t even believe what I’m saying.” 

Enjolras laughs. “Actions speak louder than words, R. You just said it. I try to relate to you as the artist who does our flyers and the member with perfect attendance and the first person to get his knees muddy when someone needs first aid in the street. Luckily, ‘cause I could throttle the argumentative prat who likes to humiliate and verbally eviscerate me three times a week.”

“I do really like to do that,” hums Grantaire, and Enjolras raises his arms to the sky petitioning for patience, or a lightning bolt, or to call the gods’ attention to what he has to deal with.

“I can take these stairs,” says Grantaire abruptly, “I’ll see you on Thursday.”

Enjolras watches the curly head descend into the Métro, shakes his own head to clear it and keeps walking home.

*/)

After a process with the FFAC, Marius is assigned a puppy. Les Amis spend time clearing Marius’ schedule to make sure he can take the puppy to the guide dog school for training. Courfeyrac offers the use of his car to get to the school and Bahorel says he’ll always be available to drive them there. Bossuet promises to take over Marius’ voluntary shifts at the mission and Bahorel and Feuilly offer to make dog beds and door gates. Everyone agrees to contribute financially for any additional or emergency cost, and Enjolras, Jehan and Grantaire almost fall over each other offering to dog sit. Combeferre has already found him the best vet in the vicinity and Joly reports he is stocked up on allergy medication so Marius can bring the puppy to meetings.

“He’s a male pup from the L litter,” Marius says, passing around his phone with a pic of the puppy displayed. It’s a week out from pick up day. “So we need to choose a name starting with L.”

“Liberty!” shouts Enjolras with no hesitation.

“Libation,” suggests Grantaire. “Sounds good.”

“I’m gonna write these down,” says Courfeyrac, uncapping a whiteboard marker. “The good ones anyway,” he clarifies after Bahorel yells, “Libido!”

“Lautrec. From Henri Toulouse-Lautrec,” says Feuilly. 

“Lichtenstein, from Roy Lichtenstein,” Grantaire responds.

“Lesgle and L’Aigle are really great names,” Bossuet points out, to a round of fond laughter.

Combeferre contributes Lepidoptera, Lycaena and Limenitis. “Moths,” he explains. 

“Lame,” coughs Bahorel.

“Lycan,” Grantaire says, “if we’re doing Latin. Or Lupin.” Bahorel and Bossuet start howling.

“Lupin is a flower,” says Jehan, “like Lotus, Lantana, Linaria.”

“Latex.”

“No Bahorel.”

“Should be something with weight, with meaning” says Enjolras, “Loi, Langue, Leverage, Liaison.” 

“Those suggestions are ludicrous,” smirks Bahorel.

Grantaire adds, “The classics have weight. How about: Lelantos, Lachesis, Leto or Lytta.”

“Lytta is nice,” says Marius. There is some agreement until Courfeyrac notices Jehan giggling.

“Okay Prouvaire, what’s so funny.”

“Just… Lytta represents blind rage and rabies,” they gasp. 

“Grantaire!”

“It has meaning!”

“Or after someone, such as Lincoln or Luther King,” says Enjolras, trying to bring everyone back to order.

“Trotsky and Tolstoy were Leon and Leo,” says Combeferre.

“Lennox Lewis - boxer. Lucien Gaudin, Alexandre Lippmann - fencers. Loïc Lavenu - tattooist supreme,” Grantaire spits out, like a ticker tape.

“We could name the puppy after Doris Lessing, the feminist writer,” Éponine suggests. 

“Or just call him Lipstick Lesbian,” retorts Grantaire.

“We can do better. We’re being lackadaisical,” says Bahorel.

Jehan suggests poets: Louÿs, Laforgue, Leconte de Lisle & Lamartine. 

Grantaire says, “Lamartine is a maison du vin. We could go Latour, or Lafite Rothschild.”

“Or musicians,” says Feuilly, “like Leonard Cohen.”

“Lou Reed,” says Grantaire.

“Lagwagon,” says Bossuet.

“Loretta Lynn,” says Bahorel. “What? I like 70’s country. Suck me.”

“That explains your choice of Conway Twitty at karaoke,” muses Grantaire.

“You went to karaoke without me? How dare?” cries Bossuet.

“Lionel Richie,” shouts Joly, with a scary amount of enthusiasm. 

“Awww,” says Musichetta, who has drifted into the meeting. She kisses Joly and says, “You’re so sweet.”

“He serenades us with Lionel Richie sometimes,” confides Bossuet, beaming.

“Awww,” says Jehan.

“How about lapsang souchong,” says Musichetta, “or lemonade?”

Joly, Grantaire and Courfeyrac sing “Milk, milk, lemonade. Round the corner, chocolate’s made.”

“Maybe not lemonade,” says Musichetta.

“Lint.”

“No Bahorel.”

“Lanternon, because he’ll be lighting the path for his human,” says Enjolras.

“Larmes, because life is full of tears,” says Jehan.

“Lychee. Or Liquorice, that’s cute,” says Musichetta.

“Livre,” says Combeferre, “I like books.”

“Liminal Space,” says Joly, “the threshold between one plane of existence and another.”

“Where do you go in that head of yours, Joly-chat?” says Éponine, but she looks impressed.

“Labia.”

“No, Bahorel.”

“Sorry, that was lewd,” Bahorel says.

“How about…” says Grantaire, and there is a gravitas about him where before it was all flippancy, “how about we call the puppy Ling, because Marius is our expert linguist.”

There is a silent pause. Grantaire has a talent for appropriating all the words in a space.

And Marius says, “I like it.”

*/)

Fortunately for the success of the first fundraising and awareness event Les Amis put on, Feuilly is accomplished at constructing anything, and the fence he erects around the “Bow-Wow Bath ‘n’ Bow for the Blind” contains the chaos to a 50sqm area.

“Whose idea was this?” growls Grantaire, “I’ll kill ‘em.” His hair is so saturated it has flattened against his face, veiling his forehead and eyes. It doesn’t hide his scowl. 

“It was Cosette, so your dreams of revenge are futile,” says Éponine. She snaps a photo for the online awareness campaign -- “Blackmail, more likely,” Courfeyrac grumbles, when she gets one of him on the floor trying to coax a fox terrier out from under a table -- just as Grantaire looks up at her with desperate eyes and dog-hair-flecked soap on his cheeks.

“You are struck from my will, Thénardier,” Grantaire says flatly. 

“Oh no,” she says, feigning dismay, “how else will I acquire half used oil paints and empty tequila bottles?”

“You forget, I also own France’s greatest collection of blurry, candid polaroids of the back of Enjolras’ head.” Their eyes flick to Enjolras, who is with Musichetta drying the clean dogs.

“Then I will start my own,” Éponine says, her camera clicking in Enjolras’ general direction. She walks past where Bossuet and Combeferre are brandishing pamphlets and explaining the need for guide dogs to the waiting dog owners, but ignores Enjolras for the greater photo opportunity of Cosette tying a homemade bow on a poodle. Grantaire and Bahorel had been up until 2.30am sewing the last of the various bows. 

Grantaire goes back to struggling with his hairy charge, who shimmies himself scattering water everywhere. Grantaire shrugs and shakes his head to dislodge the worst of the drips from his hair. The dog he’s washing gives him an unimpressed look.

Eventually, Marius streamlines the process by pairing each of the Amis who are washing dogs and arming them with Musichetta’s home-baked dog treats for purposes of distraction and bribery. They whole thing goes better from then on, but Bahorel stills swears dogs are demons in furry disguise from that day on.

*/)

Grantaire ambushes Enjolras outside his last lecture of the day and drags him towards the Métro. “You won’t regret this Apollo, I swear on Pyrrho,” which Enjolras can hardly take seriously but Grantaire, when he wants to, emits such a strong spirit of enquiry it’s hard not to get swept along. 

Grantaire knocks on a basement apartment door and it is swung open after a short time by a tall woman with a serene smile. “R,” she says, and turns immediately and pads away from them on bare feet. 

“That’s Geeta,” says Grantaire, and follows her. Enjolras fits the door gently back into the frame behind him before he walks into the dim of the flat. Geeta is sitting at a small dining table in a kitchen which hasn’t been redecorated since the 1950’s. She waves her hand to a box at her feet.

There is a large dog in the box, a tan Great Dane cross, and a litter of five mongrels. The puppies have mastiff looking faces. 

Enjolras sucks in a breath.

The first meeting Marius brought Ling, Grantaire had noticed Enjolras staring at the puppy and clenching his fists. He understands the impulse to pat and commiserates with the frustration that they can’t make a fuss over the guide-dog-in-training. The expression on Enjolras’ face had been something unfamiliar and frightening, something like badly hidden despair. It had struck Grantaire as so wrong on Enjolras, the golden fount of hope. Grantaire’s heart aches. He’s practised at shoving his own unhappiness under the rug. He has no idea how to do that to Enjolras’. 

“We don’t know what sort of mastiff daddy was, but we don’t slut shame, do we, Paradis?” Geeta pats the mama dog’s head. “You can handle them, if you like,” their host tells Enjolras.

He looks at Grantaire with big eyes. Grantaire rolls his eyes and picks up one of the puppies, choosing randomly, and dumps it into Enjolras’ arms. 

It’s like watching a marble statue melt. 

And although Grantaire finds it so odd to see his god made human, it is in such an endearing way, he can’t regret his pushiness to get Enjolras here. Grantaire sits on the floor and watches Enjolras with a lapful of puppies. It’s better than a Disney movie.

“You’re a frisky little fellow,” Grantaire tells one pup as it tries to escape, it’s back paws scratching the side of the box but failing to grab purchase.

“This one is the most handsome, and eats the most,” says Geeta, pointing to one of the wiggly balls of fur.

But Grantaire is an artist and observation serves him well in this. He sees Enjolras’ gaze linger on one of the female pups.

He scoops that pup up and scrambles up to balance on one knee like a knight before his king, like a proposal, and holds the pup out on flat hands like it’s a platter. “Enjolras,” he intones, “will you do me the extreme honour of co-parenting this dog with me?”

“How would that work?” says Enjolras, but the question is infused with too much longing to hit his usual note of derision.

“I could have her during the day while you’re in class and you can have her overnight. You can dress her in Christmas sweaters and train her to bite homophobes and I can dip her paws in paint and make her do my work for me.”

Enjolras makes an ungainly movement where he attempts to dismissively toss his head while not looking away from the puppy.

After a moment, while Enjolras bites his lip and Grantaire struggles not to tip over because his head is spinning and his pits are starting to get damp and there does not seems to be any good reasons for Grantaire to have suggested such a ridiculous thing as co-doing anything with Enjolras, let alone foster a life, Enjolras lifts his eyes to meet Grantaire’s. 

“Can we call her Liberty?”

Grantaire makes a show of scoffing. He hands Enjolras the puppy. “How about Feronia? She’s a guardian of liberty.”

“I like it,” says Enjolras, and he beams at Grantaire, who feels aflame. He’s managed to stop himself from cringing away from Enjolras, like a vampire in the sunlight, or worse, stretching forwards, like a plant unfolding at dawn, when a cloud comes over. “But you have to pronounce it correctly. No Furr-onia. And we can’t shorten it or Ferre will think we named her for him.”

“Whatever you say, Apollo.”

“You can pick her up in two weeks,” Geeta says.

“Want to go for food?” asks Enjolras, when he has reluctantly left Feronia to her mother and they are on the street again. “We can figure out the logistics.”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, though he’s sobering up in the fresh air and starting to question his life choices. 

They’re settled at a cafe, eating and fighting over how to train dogs -- “As if it matters, you’re going to let her get away with anything,” says Grantaire -- when Jehan, Courfeyrac and Combeferre find them.

“What are you two doing?” asks Jehan.

“Is this a date?” asks Courfeyrac.

“We’re getting a dog,” gushes Enjolras, cutting over anything else being said. “She’s red point but she has a white belly and a tiny spot on her nose and…” He looks to Grantaire.

“Three,” he says.

“Yeah, three white paws,” says Enjolras reverently. “And her name is Feronia.”

“Very nice,” says Jehan. 

“What?” asks Courfeyrac.

Enjolras doesn’t pause to explain the reference. “She’s definitely smarter than the rest of the litter, isn’t she Grantaire?”

Grantaire had been grinning but he smoothed his face into something resembling serious and agreeable and nodded, “Definitely.”

“Just clarify this for me,” says Combeferre. “Who’s getting a dog?” 

“Me and R,” Enjolras says, his grammar gone to sea in his excitement.

“So this is a date?” repeats Courfeyrac, “If you’re getting a dog together.”

“It’s time we quashed the notion of the nuclear family Courfeyrac. It serves only the 1%, given its invention to promote the capitalist agenda, and fosters discontent in those who, for whatever reason, fall outside societal norms.”

“Is this a good idea? Getting a puppy? You and Grantaire already fight a lot,” Combeferre points out.

“You don’t think I should have my puppy?” Enjolras asks. At the devastated look on his face, Grantaire actually rises out of his chair and Jehan shakes their head.

“Combeferre,” they say drawing the syllables out until it sounds like maman’s last stick of patience just got snapped. “Is your heart made of stone?”

“Don’t worry, Apollo. We’re getting Feronia. We can use the stick from Ferre’s arse to play fetch.”

“No, I’ll get a frisbee,” enthuses Enjolras. “Let’s go shopping R. We need bowls and a collar, and I’ll text Marius to get his vet’s name, and…”

“What have you done, Grantaire?” Combeferre looks like he’s standing on the deck of a sinking ship watching the last lifeboat row away from him

“Gotta go shopping,” says Grantaire, and scarpers, but not fast enough to outrun the tendril of doubt Combeferre has planted.

*/)

While Marius and Ling get to know each other and begin training, the other Amis work to set up their main campaign for the year. They set up a stall at one of the Saturday markets, Éponine and Gavroche have volunteered to man the sales side of it every weekend and the others rotate turns to attend the stall with pamphlets of guide dog training and how to get involved. The whole project comes together fairly easily once the chambre de commerce clears them to register under Feuilly’s pre-existing business, between Courfeyrac’s ability to charm the placier and Grantaire & Combeferre’s speed in putting the pamphlet and educational info together. The stall is stocked with homemade bows, and hats and summer coats, designed for dogs and sewn by Bahorel & Grantaire, there is a range of tasty dog treats made by Musichetta, and Feuilly has hand-painted a range of bowls, beds and dog-biscuit containers that he’d created with Bossuet. Éponine and Gavroche will take orders for any of the items if owners want them personally named. The only difficulty in this project is the length of it. 

“Morning!” calls Courfeyrac, as Enjolras approaches the market-place coffee cart on the weekend they’ve drawn pamphlet duty at the stall.

“Hello Courf,” says Enjolras.

“Hi Courf,” says Grantaire’s disembodied voice.

“Enjolras, why does your arm sound like R?”

“He’s on speaker. Say hi back. It’s rude.”

“Hi R,” Courfeyrac says obediently.

Grantaire chuckles. “I gotta go; I’m meeting Bahorel. Bye Courf. See you later Apollo.” 

They return his goodbyes and the phone clicks. 

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with R,” Courfeyrac observes while Enjolras is waiting in the caffeine queue.

“Not really,” says Enjolras.

“When was the last day you didn’t see him?” Courfeyrac presses.

Enjolras waves dismissively. “Ages ago, but he’s my baby daddy, we’d all better get used to it.”

“Oh my god,” says Courfeyrac, “Excuse me while I lose my shit.”

“What?” says Enjolras, and then, to the barista, “Black please, in this Norguet-cup.”

“Aside from- Enjolras, Feronia is a dog, not a baby. And, this is R we’re talking about.”

“R’s good at everything,” Enjolras insists, handing over some money. “He’ll be awesome with Feronia.”

“Enjolras, just last month you called him good-for-nothing.”

“Well, he’s good at everything he attempts and, in that context, I meant his cynical attitude stopped him from trying to contribute. Hence, not good for anything in the area we were discussing.”

Courfeyrac squints at him. “You might want to explain that to him. I’m not sure that’s how he interpreted that conversation.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Meanwhile, it’s my duty as a dedicated member of Les Amis d’ABC to tell everyone about Enjy’s baby daddy. Oh wait, can you repeat it on my voice recorder so I have firm proof.”

“Piss off,” says Enjolras. But a few days later when Courfeyrac presents Grantaire with a T-shirt that features BABY DADDY printed hideously on the front, Enjolras just frowns and says, “Where’s mine?”

“We can share it Apollo, like our parenting duties,” Grantaire says from somewhere inside the shirt he’s stripping out of in the middle of the cafe.

“We can’t,” says Enjolras, a little distracted, “you’ve got all those muscles.” Grantaire freezes with his head just peeking out of the T-shirt. “I mean,” Enjolras continues, going cutely pink, “it’ll be too big for me… on me.”

“I don’t know,” says Courfeyrac smirking, “Sometimes you’d be surprised at what’s a good fit.”

*/)

Feronia comes home on a Tuesday. Enjolras makes Courfeyrac drive him and Grantaire to get her and they huddle in the back seat on the way home, cradling her between them in a red, fluffy blanket. When he glances in the rearview mirror, Enjolras looks like the little boy Courfeyrac met at École primaire, and Courfeyrac can’t sincerely begrudge his friend anything that makes him forget to be angry for a short time. 

They go to Enjolras’ place because it’s late afternoon and Enjolras is to have Feronia for night times. The puppy is trembling by the time they are unlocking the door, overwhelmed with the new scents and sounds of her world having expanded from one familiar kitchen to the hodgepodge of sensations to be experienced on Parisian streets. When the door is closed behind them, Grantaire puts her down and she immediately pees on Enjolras’ parquet floor.

“Poor baby. She’s so scared,” Enjolras says as he steps around her to fetch a towel. After they wipe her, and the floor, Feronia tentatively sniffs around the hallway. 

“It’s your new home, baby pup,” Grantaire tells the dog, whose tail wags so widely her whole back half is waving.

Enjolras walks to the living area and calls out, “Come here, Feronia.” He tries to interest her in the bed they bought from Feuilly, but she is too busy sniffing everything under the sofa and around the kitchen cabinets. Courfeyrac leaves after 10 minutes, but Grantaire and Enjolras are still on the living room floor hours later. Every time they get up to see Grantaire out, the puppy’s eyes snap open and she leaps out of the bed.

“Just take her to your bed,” says Grantaire. “Let’s not pretend you wouldn’t end up letting her in there anyway.”

So Enjolras shrugs and carries her into his room. He places her on the duvet but she bounces over to the edge of the bed and whines at the floor and then at Grantaire until he sits next to her.

“Just stay the night R?” asks Enjolras eventually, after it becomes clear their furry dictator wants both her dad’s in sight. He changes into the long sleeve T he wears for sleeping. Grantaire doesn’t even pretend to avert his gaze, just waggles his eyebrows when Enjolras catches him appreciating long legs and a soft belly. Enjolras has an allergy to backing down, so he gets under the covers and stares at Grantaire. “Your turn,” he challenges.

And Grantaire can only live with showing weakness if he’s in control of it, if he can be self-corrosive, so he pulls his hoodie off slowly and drops his jeans without once looking away. He tries not to think about how old and short his T-shirt is and how very small his boxer briefs suddenly seem. He stubbornly holds onto his smirk when he sees Enjolras swallow thickly, how his eyes travel over any exposed skin. Grantaire’s brain is vacillating between running for the hills or taking off more clothing.

Grantaire climbs onto the other side of the bed. Feronia licks both of their faces happily and curls up between them. Her satisfaction makes Grantaire laugh and scritch her neck. 

Enjolras thinks he’s never going to sleep with two extra beings in his bed, but Feronia settles and breathes deeply, and Grantaire drifts off with his fingers stroking the puppy’s ear. Enjolras watches them sleeping, oddly calm. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes.

*/)

Ling and Feronia meet in a wriggling, huffing mass with much sniffing and exposed round bellies. Grantaire puts his arm around Marius, nodding to where Enjolras is recording the moment on his phone, and notes, “If you weren’t a host trainer and only responsible for Ling for a year, I think he’d be planning their wedding.”

“R, she’s just a baby,” Enjolras protests. He kneels on the pavement and reaches to cuddle both of the puppies.

“Don’t touch my puppy, Enjolras,” Marius reminds him, and Enjolras’ hand retracts quickly like Ling is fire.

“I forgot,” he says.

Marius smiles. “This is why I am a foster father and you are a bizarre French version of a Pageant mom, but y’know, a natural blond.” 

“Ow,” says Grantaire, “stung by Marius.” 

They go into the Corinthe for their meeting. Ling is allowed access because of his status as a care-dog. Feronia is allowed access because Ms Hucheloup’s resistance dissipates like water on a skillet when she is confronted with Enjolras.

When the meeting starts, Grantaire takes the dog. Enjolras is always at the front of the room, of the group, and Grantaire has his spot at the back so Feronia waddles under the table, tries to eat Grantaire’s foot. Meanwhile, Ling is seated at Marius’ heel. He only has to call the pup back a few times before Ling settles down to sleep.

About forty minutes in they are brainstorming approaches to protest a disturbing newly proposed social welfare policy, when Enjolras’ voice increases in volume and Grantaire gets out of his seat. Grantaire gestures violently to punctuate his attack while Enjolras inches closer to him, his face furious. During such fights, les autre Amis are used to their existence being forgotten. But this time, Jehan breaks in between them to say, “You’re scaring your puppy,” and they stop immediately. Grantaire reaches out carefully to pet Feronia in Jehan’s arms and Enjolras’ tone morphs into an unfamiliar tentative sound.

When they are alone after the meeting, Enjolras says, “We have to stop fighting.”

Grantaire shakes his head, “How’re we going to do that? We fundamentally disagree about so many things.”

“Maybe we can subdue our altercations, have discussions instead of fights.”

“We’ll just have to,” says Grantaire doubtfully.

*/)

They have a routine. Grantaire calls it the custody arrangement. 

Enjolras walks Feronia, dressed in a doggie coat, to Grantaire’s in the morning before catching the Métro to class. Grantaire brings her to meet Enjolras in the evening, generally on campus where Enjolras is working on his post-grad, and they sometimes get food together before Grantaire goes home to work. They are hyper-aware not to argue, because Feronia whimpers when they do, and Grantaire had assumed they would have nothing to talk about. 

“You can’t put Depeche Mode in the same category as Echo and the Bunnymen. Echo are post punk, they had something to say,” Enjolras says at one dinner.

“Was what it they had to say? ‘We can’t play our instruments’? Was it ‘who cares if we resonate on a musical level so long as we stir shit’? Besides the Mode had something to say.”

“Yeah, doom and gloom.”

“Doom and gloom is my aesthetic, let’s be real, and besides, isn’t rebelling from religion as valuable as rebelling from the state, Apollo?” and discussing that point takes them through the samosas and most of the palak paneer. “Depeche Mode have whimsy,” Grantaire insists, once Enjolras appears to be winding down.

“If you weren’t Feronia’s other parent, you would be dead to me right now,” says Enjolras, swiping the remaining roti.

Once a week Grantaire and Joly have a ‘Provence represent!’ catch-up. “Enjolras was telling me about the Lapita peoples and their burial customs,” Grantaire tells Joly, showing him his latest series of paintings, “and that’s how I got inspired to do this series.” 

Joly nods with a level of faux-understanding that is the winning component of his bedside manner. The paintings look like random skulls and dirt and birds to him, but Grantaire has just sold one item in this series for €1800 so what would Joly know. He adores Grantaire but spending time with him often affirms for Joly his career choice in medical science.

On meeting days, Grantaire brings Feronia to the meeting for hand over because Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Combeferre have a long-standing practice of getting together beforehand to pre-plan. 

“How did you come up with this idea, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks at one such pre-meeting.

“Grantaire was teaching me about the ancient history of the Ginkgo biloba tree by my apartment, and we got into talking about it’s medical uses and then started to think about how some crafts and “women’s” knowledge isn’t getting passed down anymore with numbers of working mothers becoming exponentially larger. That’s when I wondered if we could have Grandparents teaching children about knitting and safe plants and other practical skills that are more frequently bypassing this generation. Grantaire thought it was a good idea.”

“Oh well, if Grantaire thought it was a good idea…” says Combeferre, completely straight-faced.

“Yeah, I even know some older people with interesting knowledge to pass on. Ep probably knows some craft people.” Grantaire’s voice cuts in from the vicinity of Enjolras’ arm.

“Could you let us know when R is in our company please Enjolras?” Combeferre requests.

“You should probably just assume it,” Enjolras’ arm says. “And Feronia is here too. Say hi pup. Say hi.”

Enjolras listens to Feronia wuffling through the phone with a delight and pride they haven’t seen from him since he argued educational reform with the Education Minister at a library opening and the man was forced to leave the site hurriedly when the gathered crowd became incited to yell demands for their children’s education.

Enjolras has been looping Grantaire into pre-meeting planning, but they try to do it by email or phone so it doesn’t affect their dog. Grantaire finds if he’s already raised his concerns or objections before Enjolras speaks at the meeting, the content has either been altered accordingly or it’s easier for Grantaire to merely roll his eyes and pet the puppy instead of erupting into his former niggling and scorn. 

In the weekends, they had originally intended to have Feronia a day each, switching over for brunch on Sunday morning but it’s fallen by the wayside and neither of them have noticed that they now spend most of the weekend doing things together. 

“You spending Saturday with Enjolras again?” Bahorel asks at one Thursday meeting.

“No I… oh I… Yes I am, but it’s because we are taking Feronia to the market for her favourite dog treats and then we make lunch from all the great food we find there.”

“I’ve been banking the proceeds from the stall, and I believe Enjolras is close to singlehandedly supporting this financial endeavour,” Bossuet says.

“This could well be true,” shrugs Grantaire.

“And Sunday? I thought we could box a few rounds,” suggests Bahorel.

“Can we do it in the evening? We’re taking Feronia to the park for frisbee and a play date with Ling while it’s light.”

“What happened to you, man?” says Bahorel.

Grantaire pretends to sob, “I had a kid and I’m not cool anymore.”

“Well,” says Bahorel, swiveling on his heel to frown at Enjolras, who is rubbing his chin all over Feronia’s belly and singing a made-up song about the puppy’s bravery, “at least you’re cooler than the other parent.”

“How is that the same person who spoke sternly for a mere 15 minutes and caused the resignation of two city councillors?” asks Feuilly.

“I’d say he’s been body snatched but he chewed me out the other day and I almost wet my pants,” Bahorel admits.

“I thought I’d miss that, but I really don’t,” says Grantaire.

Bossuet says, “You two still squabble all the time though.”

“Yeah,” agrees Grantaire, “but it’s like nicotine patches instead of lighting up a ciggie.”

“So you still get somewhat of a hit,” says Feuilly, “You kinky pair of donkeys.” 

There have been several instant-ignition arguments but when one of them catches sight of Feronia’s quivering little frame, they stop yelling and gesticulating abruptly.

Before the meeting starts, Enjolras comes over and sits next to Grantaire, knee comfortably against his and their shoulders overlapping like scales. When Grantaire leans forward to give Joly the special ‘Provence represent!’ handshake, Enjolras moves with him. 

When Combeferre stands up and calls for order, Enjolras stands too, patting Feronia before moving to the front of the room. Grantaire clutches Feronia’s lead, tries to concentrate on what Enjolras is saying and not miss the buzz of his presence at his side.

*/)

“Where’s my matching Christmas jersey?” says Grantaire laughing, watching Enjolras struggle to put a wriggling, panting dog into a red and silver knitted coat. 

He regrets the jest seconds later as Enjolras lights up and cries, “Let’s get you one right now.”

Two Métro stops away, Grantaire is led into a shop in which Enjolras and Feronia are clearly well known because the assistant comes out from behind the counter claiming, “Oh Enjolras, they look lovely on you. You look so well in red.”

“Hello Mme, this is Grantaire. He’s Feronia’s other parent.”

“Enchanté Mme,” says Grantaire charmingly.

“Oh call me Volette, please mon cher. And how can I help you?”

Enjolras is already pulling an identical jersey off the shelf. “What size, R?” he’s asking.

“Now Enjolras, chouchou,” Volette taps over on precarious heels, “Look at your gorgeous boyfriend, his stunning curls, his dark complexion, he can wear a range of bold colours.”

“But we won’t match…”

“No no, no. Trust me,” croons Volette and begins to load items into a speechless Grantaire’s arms.

When they exit an hour later, Enjolras is still in red and silver, Grantaire in green and silver, matching despite the complementary colours, and Feronia is in green and red with silver trim. Grantaire is carrying the dog, and Enjolras is attempting to take photos of them while struggling with bulging shopping bags.

In transit, on the Métro, Grantaire notices a trio of teenage girls sighing over their attire. It is only then he realises, neither he nor Enjolras corrected Volette when she called him Enjolras’ boyfriend. The idea of it warms him in his chest but itches around the edges, pretty much exactly like the new green jersey. 

When they come up from underground, it is going dark, and they drift to the Musain without planning it. Jehan is sitting outside the Musain at the tables on the pavement. There’s an empty espresso cup in front of them and their feet are on a chair, but Jehan leaps up when they see the Christmas jerseys. “You three are the best,” they squeal, as if Enjolras and Grantaire dressed like this as a gift for Jehan. “And you are precious,” Jehan croons, scooping up Feronia.

Grantaire’s just been paid from a project so he goes inside to order all manner of sustenance. He regrets it immediately when Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta surround him. 

“R, that is sacrilegious, you are Jewish, I’m calling your mum,” says Bossuet, who does not actually know Grantaire’s mum. 

“R, that is sacrilegious, you’re Romani, I’m calling your papa,” says Musichetta, who also has Romani blood and is just as uninterested in inherited faith as Grantaire is. 

“Sorry, Chetta, I’m from the South of France, I’m Catholic Romani,” Grantaire points out.

“R, if you don’t take that jersey off immediately, you can’t be part of ‘Provence represent!’ anymore,” says Joly. 

Grantaire sighs. “It gets worse,” he warns, indicating the tables outside, “Wait until you see Enjolras and Feronia.”

Musichetta looks at her boyfriends gleefully. “Let’s go.” They rush out leaving Grantaire to order.

When he gets back outside, most of their crowd of friends have wandered up and pulled up a wonky outdoor chair.

“They need a squished together name,” Courfeyrac is insisting. “Granjolronia or something.”

“They need those matching velour tracksuits with their names on the arse,” says Éponine. 

“Shut up,” hisses Grantaire, “you’ll give him ideas.”

“Stand close,” Jehan requests. “I want to get a photo, puhlease.”

Grantaire sinks into the chair next to Enjolras, who holds Feronia up to face level, and Jehan takes a picture of Grantaire hunched over and Enjolras nuzzling the dog. Feronia comes out as a blurr. 

The food arrives and Grantaire has to fight Bahorel and Éponine for his meal. “Why don’t you steal from Enjolras?” he whines.

“Because he’s scary,” says Bahorel.

“And yet…” Grantaire says, indicating where Enjolras is sharing all the best bits off his plate with Feronia.

Marius is talking to Enjolras about ensuring a dog’s comfort by creating a pack environment, while Grantaire lets Feronia lick his fingers clean. “Discipline is for their benefit, you know,” Marius says, “Dogs feel very unsettled if they aren’t clear on who’s in charge. Guillaume was okay with your spoiling him because he assumed you and he were equal footing puppies and either your mum or dad was alpha.” Ling is eyeing Feronia with his ears flat, but he doesn’t do more than shift his weight from paw to paw.

After the plates are cleared, Enjolras leans his back against Grantaire’s shoulder while he listens to Marius. Grantaire has become familiar with, although not immune to, the feel of Enjolras. It’s now commonplace for their fingers to brush against each others while handing over the puppy, to share the bed, and to press in close to take photos.

“I have to go home. I still have some work to do,” Grantaire says, with some reluctance.

“No,” Enjolras groans, tipping even further over onto Grantaire. “You can’t. Feronia misses you.”

“I have to go to work dear, or I can’t pay for Ronia’s university studies,” says Grantaire, as seriously as he can, “especially if we keep buying matching ensembles. We can’t all still be lazing around in school well into our twenties.”

“Oh, when the time comes, we’ll just flick off one of the villas abroad. The Belize, or the chalet in Verbier,” says Enjolras in a perfect, plummy accent.

Courfeyrac laughs. “R, whatever you’re doing to Enj, keep doing it. That was a joke, an actual, humorous joke.”

“Why don’t you and the hairy hot-water bottle come over? You can watch TV or write a naive speech while I finish this ugly commision,” Grantaire says, nudging Enjolras off him.

“Okay,” says Enjolras, happily. The three of them take their leave, and their friends watch them go with varying degrees of amusement or consternation.

“When did R trade in band Ts for cardigans?” says Éponine.

“When did vindaloo Enjolras become porridge with sugar?” says Marius.

“How long can this last before we all get blown to shit?” says Combeferre.

*/)

Enjolras and Grantaire fight viciously when discussing the third event for their guide-dog project. After a few stunned minutes of watching Grantaire yell sarcastically and Enjolras smash his fists on the table top, les Amis separate them like unruly children. Joly and Bossuet drag Grantaire out to the bar. Combeferre picks Enjolras up and carts him to the back storage room. He’s red in the face and spitting, “Put me down, Combeferre!” Jehan takes Feronia to Musichetta for treats. 

Courfeyrac provides them each with paper and makes them write their arguments down, swaps the papers over, insists they edit each others and then swap back. Enjolras takes five pages. His pen pierces the paper several times. Grantaire’s paper is liberally dotted with rude words and scribbled doodles.

The process works though, to calm Enjolras down, and Grantaire finds it is easier for him to be less of an arse via written language than it is when he has to see Enjolras in front of him, glorious and disdainful and glowing and distant.

Les Amis are co-organizing a maze run for which the runners will be blindfolded and lead by a partner. The contestants are mainly from the University, the local lycée and collège, and are currying sponsorship from their neighbourhoods. Meanwhile, the social media coverage is exploding. Courfeyrac started #puppyguide, the tag for darling pics of Ling, and #amazeme, which the maze run contestants are all using, and attaches links to the FFAC when ever he can.

The sun is bright, but not hot, on the day. Grantaire is squinting, even behind his sunglasses, but he takes the glasses off altogether when he sees Enjolras and Feronia’s outfits. They both have dark blue T-shirts on which say “R’s pit crew” in cheap white lettering.

“Aw, that is so awesome,” says Grantaire, kissing Feronia and patting the writing on Enjolras’ shirt. “God, you are such a dork, Apollo.”

“Fine. I’ll take it off then,” Enjolras threatens.

“Don’t you dare.” 

Bossuet jogs up to them. “R, I’m really sorry man but Joly has been called into the hospital to cover someone and that leaves Musichetta without a guide. I want to do it because, one, she’s my girlfriend and, two, she’s got nearly all her cafe customers on her sponsor card and, three, she threatened my sex life.” 

“I mean, I’m not anti-giving-you-orgasms if that helps?” says Grantaire, straight-faced.

“Ew though,” says Bossuet.

“I can do it, R,” Enjolras says. “Guide you, not get Lesgle off.”

“Ew though,” says Bossuet, even more emphatically. 

“Marius can take Feronia with him and Ling. Combeferre can handle Les Amis duties for running the event. There are enough ushers,” Enjolras continues as if Bossuet hasn’t spoken. 

“Maybe Éponine?” Grantaire suggests.

“She’s guiding Gavroche.”

“Fair.”

“This is our problem in a cute little example,” Enjolras says, and he looks fed up. No, worse, he looks bruised. “You don’t trust me.”

“I trust you.”

“Sure you do,” says Enjolras, rolling his eyes. “So can we be a team?”

Grantaire nods. He’s got €200 worth of pledges and he wants to see that money come in for the dogs. “Okay, but Marius has to wear the pit crew shirt.”

Enjolras grins. Grantaire puts his sunglasses back on to deflect the impact.

The maze has been set up by a team of engineering students, out of bollards and hastily made woodwork and construction equipment, so that the guides can easily navigate the course but will need to be careful to safely steer their runners over steps and around obstacles. The contestants are being started at five minute intervals because the guides are meant to lead the runners through the maze with their words only and that’s easier if they aren’t all bunched up together in a crowd. Touching your runner equals disqualification. There are Order of Malta first responders on stand-by but the engineering students claim they tested the course, both sober and drunk, and are confident it can be traversed without serious incident.

When their turn arrives, and Enjolras fixes the blindfold in place, a bolt of apprehension drips between Grantaire’s shoulder blades and he shivers.

“Okay R?” says Enjolras, hands resting on Grantaire’s shoulders. 

“This is kind of freaky,” Grantaire admits. “I use my vision a lot for my job. This is… disconcerting.”

“I’ve got you though,” says Enjolras.

“I know, I just… ” He can’t voice it, the way his interaction with the physical world has simultaneously narrowed and heightened. He can smell Enjolras, and a hint of Marius from the swapped T-shirts. Background noise is somehow forefront and a little threatening. 

The buzzer sounds.

Enjolras starts a continuous trickle of words, “Okay start moving forward, whatever pace you are comfortable with for now, I’m going to move in front of you for this next bit because it narrows…”

They negotiate steps and some turns triumphantly, but Grantaire bumps his head on a piece of scaffolding when Enjolras warns him how low to bend down but not how narrow the gap is.

Grantaire giggles. 

“Oh no. Are you…”

“Don’t touch me,” R reminds him. He can hear Enjolras’ saviour mode activating.

“Okay, yeah,” says Enjolras. “Okay then keep coming. To the right slightly.”

Grantaire has a sense of where he is going and where obstacles are, only it turns out his sense is wildly inaccurate; Enjolras’ directions contradicting Grantaire’s assumptions time and time again. Grantaire, taking a deep breath, attempts to turn off his lizard brain, and its battle to survive, and focus on Enjolras.

It’s working. It’s working so well. They are moving rapidly and smoothly and Grantaire is not thinking anymore just responding. 

“We’re almost there, R. Almost done it.”

Grantaire lifts his head. 

“Just around this cone: two steps left, two forward, two right, then forward again. Down some steps: there are three. One, two, three, flat ground.”

Grantaire takes the steps down, slowly, and slides his foot forward to assess the slant of ‘flat ground.’ The rubber on the bottom of his converse doesn’t catch, slipping out, and he tries to get his other foot underneath him but it twists over. 

“Should I touch you?” Enjolras is shouting, “R, can I touch you?”

“Wait,” says Grantaire. He’s really not sure where up is. His ankle hurts. He’s impossibly angry at himself for falling in front of Enjolras.

But this would not be the first time Grantaire has put one foot in front of the other after being reduced to one streak of stubborn.

He pushes to his feet, rolls his shoulders. “How many steps to go?” he asks.

“Ten or fifteen?” Enjolras sounds muted like he is speaking through his teeth.

“This way?” asks Grantaire and begins to limp.

“Yes,” says Enjolras angry; and then, “R,” in a begging tone.

He keeps limping; ten steps, twelve, twenty. Then Enjolras’ arms are around him and the blindfold comes off. An Order of Malta woman is jogging toward them and Combeferre is tucking himself under Grantaire’s other arm. Grantaire drifts along and lets it all happen. His ankle doesn’t hurt much anymore now that the shock is over and he’s fought back against the humiliation. He feels raw, a little like the weird mix of wiped-out, tender and super-alert he gets after a round of boxing. He wonders if every outing makes Floréal feel like that.

The first-aid woman proclaims his ankle as a mild sprain that only needs a day of R.I.C.E., and she bustles off to see to other duties. Combeferre pats him on the shoulder and goes back to overseeing the event. Marius and Cosette have been waiting to the side and swoop in on Grantaire the minute the others leave.

“Oh poor R,” Cosette coos.

“It’s fine. I’ve had much worse from fencing, and boxing, and… walking home drunk.”

“Still, you finished. That was amazing. The dogs’ll get your money now,” Marius adds, handing Feronia’s lead to Enjolras. He and Cosette fuss over Grantaire for a bit longer before Gavroche finishes the course and they rush off to fuss over him instead.

Grantaire tips his head on its side when Courfeyrac turns up. He’s dressed as a dog in full fake fur and face paint. “What…?” says Grantaire.

“I was guiding one of the lycée students and so… dog!” Courfeyrac explains.

“You are aware this isn’t a dress-up event?” Enjolras says.

“Says the sap who had t-shirts made up,” counters Courfeyrac. “Where is your t-shirt?”

“I had to fill in for Bossuet and guide R.”

“And what a fabulous job you did,” teases Courfeyrac, flourishing his hand in the direction of Grantaire’s strapped ankle.

“Oh this is not on Enjolras,” Grantaire says over Enjolras groaning.

“Worst guide dog ever,” he says, pink-cheeked.

“No,” Grantaire protests, but Courfeyrac cuts him off.

“Don’t worry Enjy, you’re pretty and someone will love you as a lap dog… or a show dog, or, you’re quite barky so, maybe a guard dog?”

“Is it possible for you to give us a ride home without giving me shit the entire way?” Enjolras asks, hopefully.

“Ride, yes. Leave off teasing, no,” Courfeyrac says.

He makes good on harassing Enjolras for the whole journey but, since it makes Grantaire laugh and join in, Enjolras doesn’t mind so much.

Courfeyrac helps to get the invalid and the puppy into Grantaire’s apartment, and then barking dramatically lets himself out to drive back to the maze and pick up another lot of Amis. 

Enjolras settles Grantaire with his foot on a pillow, draped with frozen peas in a tea towel, and says, “I’m going to go out and get some food okay? Indonesian?” 

“I’m sure there is something in the fridge,” says Grantaire, “don’t bother.”

“I’m going anyway.” He sighs, “I’m sorry, R.”

“Jeez. It wasn’t you, Apollo, but okay, go get me bakso while you get your cap cai.”

Enjolras takes his wallet and Grantaire’s key and heads out to the Indonesian restaurant up the block. He orders, then adds fried wontons for Grantaire and gets gado-gado and laksa to put in the fridge for the next day. He buys Grantaire four different sorts of drink.

Enjolras walks briskly back to Grantaire’s and lets himself in. He can hear Grantaire on his bed talking to the dog. “...the best puppy daddy, isn’t he girl? He’s the best at everything, we are so lucky.” Grantaire voice is lilting, the comforting tone of a bedtime story. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he says, “Your daddy is the only person I trust. Me, and every other human, are garbage. Not daddy though. And I keep fighting with him, ’cause he needs to see how crap the rest of us are. Because it doesn’t make sense that he doesn’t just give up, or back down, or lose hope, like everyone else does. And he never does. I guess I keep pushing because it amazes me… how far your daddy’ll go for people. We don’t even deserve it.”

Enjolras closes the door with and bang and drops his shoes on the floor with more gusto than is really needed. Then he calls out, “R? I’m back. What do you want to drink with the food I got?”

“I want cola, can I have cola, Enjy?” Grantaire calls in his most annoying whine.

It makes Enjolras smile.

Enjolras brings dinner and the cola to his patient, changes his ice pack over, takes care to prop the laptop up so Grantaire can watch it. Grantaire is obnoxiously fussy; he’s giving no quarter.

When Enjolras returns to the bedroom after putting the leftovers in the fridge and washing up, Feronia is asleep and Grantaire is drowsy, and he looks so bare, all his spikes retracted, his shield dropped. Enjolras’ stomach is shifting at seismic slants. The thought that Grantaire doesn’t think he is worth fighting for is sickening.

Enjolras moves the laptop, sets it aside. He tugs the blanket up toward Grantaire’s chin. 

“Hey,” says Grantaire. His eyes are half-lidded but they are warm, pleased. Enjolras has never been looked at with simple joy before. He knows he has inspired conviction and determination and righteousness; he’s seen pride and devotion and fondness flashed in his direction. But this, this feels like something he wants to keep.

He doesn’t even notice he’s leaned in until he’s already kissing Grantaire.

“What are you…?” Grantaire mumbles.

“Can I? Kiss you. Please, R?” Enjolras stutters. 

The seconds it takes before Grantaire nods feel like forty parched years. 

Enjolras kisses in tentative nibbles and Grantaire lets him but his hands are everywhere. Tight on the back of Enjolras’ neck and between his shoulder blades. Skimming over his shoulders and his chest. Immovable on Enjolras’ hips to drag him closer.

He takes command of the kiss, manhandles Enjolras, who is pliant and eager and dizzy. He plucks at Enjolras’ shirt and his hands skate across the baby smooth skin revealed when Enjolras yanks it off.

“And you,” says Enjolras. He helps Grantaire shrug his shirt off and throws it like it’s offended him.

Grantaire is the opposite of Enjolras. There are no soft surfaces on Grantaire; his hair is wiry, his muscles are hard and obvious, even the pads of his fingers scrape. But his eyes are soft, his voice is soothing.

“We make a good team,” says Enjolras.

“We do not. We disagree all the time.”

“Well, you didn’t have to say that. This is why we argue… No, I don’t want to fight. R, we get stuff done when we work together and it’s more good times than bad,” Enjolras says. “Isn’t it?”

Grantaire, under pressure and overwhelmed, does the first thing that pops into his fizzing brain, and starts singing, “Even the bad times are good, soon as I get to you baby. You just gotta hold me, and even the bad times are good.” 

Only with Grantaire’s voice swelling around the room and Enjolras giggling, Feronia perks up and climbs over Enjolras. She wriggles herself in between them and licks Grantaire’s chest hair. They try to shove her off but she loves that game and waggles her bum extra hard to display how keen she is to play.

Grantaire kisses Feronia’s tummy, then tells Enjolras, in a gravel-lined promise, “Later.”

Enjolras shivers. “Later,” he agrees.

*/)

“Watch this,” Enjolras says, tugging on Grantaire’s elbow to haul him through the front door and into his living room. He lets Grantaire greet Feronia and then says, “Feronia. Bed.”

She trots over to her doggie bed and hops in, looking to Enjolras with her ears up.

“Good girl. Stay.” Feronia settles down at Enjolras’ command and Enjolras grins at Grantaire before dragging him into the bedroom. 

“She’ll stay there?” Grantaire asks.

“Yep,” boasts Enjolras, “She learnt it so quickly. She’s incredibly smart.” He climbs onto the bed. Grantaire thinks the way his arse sways must be deliberate. “Want to see what uses we can come up with for all this free space,” Enjolras says, flopping onto his stomach and making snow angels on the duvet. 

“I can think of so many things,” Grantaire enthuses, standing on the heel of his shoe to get it off.

“Actually, I made a list,” says Enjolras, swiping his phone screen to open a memo. 

Grantaire laughs. “Of course you did. Did Combeferre double check it?” 

“That’s your job.”

“Well Apollo,” Grantaire says, climbing onto Enjolras and reading his phone, “we’d better start at the top then.” 

Despite their best efforts, they have not accomplished all of the items on Enjolras’ list over the next two months. By which time the year is up, and it is time to say au revoir to Ling. 

Jehan is a teary mess, curled in Feuilly’s lap. Éponine lets no tears fall but she is stiff and sharp. Grantaire is hugging Enjolras from behind, sneakily wiping his face on the back of Enjolras’ jacket.

When the FFAC sends them a photo of Ling and the young boy who is Ling’s new owner, Courfeyrac tacks it to the whiteboard and whenever they are frustrated with a lack of success on some movement or another, Combeferre will point to the photo and the boy’s smile and say, “Well, we made a difference there.”


End file.
